


A Piece of Alph-Art

by Inkblot9



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Perspective, During Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the mysterious goings-on at the Fourcart Gallery and that strange young reporter, from Martine's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece of Alph-Art

Everything had changed, she supposed, when she met him.

That was not to say that nothing had been different beforehand. Obviously, the sudden death of Monsieur Fourcart had been a dreadful shock, and one that affected her directly. She had to take on his responsibilities much sooner than she ever expected. She had to deal with the loss of someone who was not only her employer, but also one of her closest friends. And on top of everything, she had to remain as composed and responsible as ever. It was certainly difficult, to say the least; but it was all a part of life, she figured, and she could definitely handle it.

Then  _he_  had shown up. A journalist, he had told her he was, with important inquiries about the circumstances surrounding her boss’s accident…as well as the notion that it hadn’t  _been_  an accident. She could tell right away that he wasn’t like any reporter she had met previously. He was not hunting for fame, gossip, or money. His only goal was to seek out the truth, and for that, she respected him. Quite possibly, that was the reason why soon enough, his suspicion and curiosity began to rub off on her.

Previously, she had been content to accept whatever she was given without further questions. She had believed that she ought to quietly manage her own business without meddling in anyone else’s. Now, though, she was beginning to realize that perhaps she had been too naïve all along. Now she was beginning to wonder what other secrets could be lying so close beneath the surface.

At first, she hadn’t wanted to listen to him. She had wanted to  _help_  him; yes, that was true. There was no reason to deny a spry and—dare she admit it— _attractive_  young writer his chance at a good story. But she couldn’t bring herself to trust in what he was saying. It was impossible! Fourcart had not been murdered. Monastir had not been murdered. And surely no one could be after  _this_  man, or the mild-mannered secretary herself! Those sorts of things just didn’t happen in the real world. There was no reason for them. Accidents were accidents and nothing more. This boy had his head in the clouds; he was just one of those adventurous types who practically  _enjoyed_  reading too much into things.

What struck her most profoundly was when he had accused her. Someone, he had claimed, had followed him on his trip to Leignault. Hence, someone must have informed his pursuers of his location. Who could that have possibly been? He thought he knew; he thought he knew it had been her.

Of course, it hadn’t been. She knew better than to speak out of turn, and naturally she wasn’t involved in any grand scheme to get rid of somebody she barely knew! At first she had been hurt, and as she had been so overwhelmed by recent events, she showed it. Soon enough, though, she was embarrassed by her oversensitivity. She realized that he had been completely logical in his assumption, if he was telling the truth, and by this point she had no reason to believe otherwise.

Nevertheless, the questions remained. For instance, how  _did_  whoever attacked him find him? Searching the gallery offices found no answer. Perhaps, she’d told herself again, it was all a mere coincidence and both of them were worrying themselves over nothing.

As days passed, she continued to see him, and it became impossible to ignore the dire possibilities that they—and goodness knows who else—were falling into. Why else would he have been so interested in every little detail? Why else would he have been speaking to her on a near-daily basis with some new development or inquiry, unless danger was still looming?

She hadn’t wanted to believe it—she still didn’t! But it was true: Fourcart had been murdered, Monastir had been murdered, and she and this strange lad could very well be next.

The only thing left to find out was  _why_ , but now that was near impossible. She had not seen the reporter in over a week. Though it terrified her to imagine it, it was entirely possible that he was dead. It was entirely possible that he had been  _killed_.

Once quiet, compliant, and gullible, she was now high-strung, constantly on her toes, alert and apprehensive. Her life was no longer as simple as it had once been, as she would have liked it to stay.

She clutched the pendant of her golden necklace in her hand, its chain still clasped around her neck. Admiring the back-to-back Es yet again, she was more grateful for her good-luck charm than ever. She was fortunate, at least, to have been endowed with whatever mysterious powers the amulet contained…and now, she figured, would be a pretty good time for it to start working.

**Author's Note:**

> How many random old drabbles am I going to dig up and post? Who knows. Well, at any rate, the ladies of Tintin's adventures need more love, and Martine is one of my favorites. She's a cutie. That is all.


End file.
